Vigil
by the misanthropic lycanthrope
Summary: James keeps vigil. Lewis/Hathaway angst and fluff.
1. Chapter 1

Vigil

"James?"

The gentle pressure on his shoulder finally got his attention. Hathaway's gaze slid up the arm of the person standing beside him until it wearily focused on the face of its owner: Laura Hobson. She was looking down at him with an expectant expression, and Hathaway assumed she must have asked him something. He hadn't heard the question and didn't even attempt to guess at what the correct response might be.

"Sorry."

Laura's face softened. "Maybe you should go home. Get some proper rest."

Hathaway shook his head. "I'd rather stay," he stated simply.

"You know he wouldn't expect you to." Her voice was soft, kind.

"I know." Hathaway turned away again resolutely, and Laura clearly realized pursuing the point would be futile; she wasn't going to change his mind. Instead, she gave his shoulder a squeeze and left the room.

By the time the door clicked shut, Hathaway's attention had returned to the still, sheet-draped figure lying on the hospital bed before him. Wires snaked out from under the sheet and trailed to various sentinel machines, but despite their soft, reassuring beeps, Hathaway needed to watch the gentle rise and fall of the recumbent figure's chest to reassure himself his governor was still breathing, irrefutable proof that Robert Lewis was still alive.

He reached out a hand towards the unconscious man, his fingers stopping an inch above the back of Lewis's hand, hovering in the air as if the slightest touch might cause the man further pain.

"I'm sorry."

Hathaway's voice was barely above a whisper, but the regret in the tone was unmistakable. He drew his hand away and dropped his chin to his chest; the action could almost have been the beginning of prayer. Or repentance.

* * *

_"No, sergeant, wait for backup."_

_"There's no time, sir!" Hathaway glanced back to Lewis as the Detective Inspector drew up beside him, panting for breath after the chase and the hurried ascent of the stairwell. Hathaway waved an arm toward the figure leaning out over the edge of the roof just a few yards away. "He's going to jump!"_

_"Having a bloody copper running over there isn't likely to persuade him not to, is it? He's unstable. He's just killed his _son_ for god's sake!"_

_Hathaway didn't want to argue with Lewis, not when he knew the man was right, but he couldn't watch two people lose their lives in the same day, especially as he honestly believed the man standing precariously close to the edge of the roof hadn't intended to take his son's life. But there was no time to debate the point now; their quarry was leaning against the low ledge circling the roof and he was peering dangerously over the side._

_"Sir, I have to try." Hathaway didn't give Lewis the chance to order him to stop; he was off and jogging towards the lone figure. He heard Lewis call his name behind him, but ignored it, focused only on the man he intended to talk out of any rash decisions._

_"Mr. Clarke…Paul. You don't have to do this." Hathaway tried to keep his voice even, conciliatory._

_The man's head whipped around and his eyes narrowed when he caught sight of the detective slowly approaching him. "Stay the fuck away from me."_

_"Come away from the edge," Hathaway continued, undeterred. "Let me help you."_

_Paul Clarke barked a harsh, humorless laugh. "You don't want to help me, you want to fuckin' arrest me!"_

_Hathaway couldn't deny that; there was no refuting what Clarke had done, but if he could just get the man to see that his fate wasn't necessarily written in stone, perhaps he could prevent a second death. "Talk to me. Explain what happened –"_

_"Talk!" Clarke spat. "You bastards have never listened to anything I have to say."_

_In one fluid movement, Clarke turned back to the roof's edge and stepped up onto the low wall._

_"No!" Hathaway cried out and lunged forward in the same instant, reaching for the man. At the same moment, he heard Lewis shout his name – "James!" – and registered the alarm in his voice just as he saw Clarke twist toward him, sunlight glinting off something clutched in his hand, something metal. A blade._

_A_ knife.

_Although his mind recognized the threat, his body, in its shock, didn't react quickly enough. As the knife flashed toward him, he was thrown sideways by a weight barreling into his shoulder._

_Losing his balance under the force of the impact, Hathaway stumbled and crashed to the ground, his jacket tearing on the grit of the roof's surface, his elbow jarring painfully._

_Stunned, he could only lay there, looking up at slowly drifting pale grey clouds, until time caught up with itself and the last few moments organized themselves in his mind. Paul Clarke. The knife. The weight that had pushed him clear of the blade's path._

Lewis.

_Hathaway scrambled to his feet, ignoring the protest form his elbow. A few feet away, a solitary figure lay in a heap. A horribly familiar figure, a red bloom spreading slowly but irrevocably across the white of his shirt._

_"No." The word was barely audible this time, exhaled on a breath of shaky, fearful panic. All thoughts of continuing the pursuit of Paul Clarke – or even checking to see if he had jumped – vanished; Hathaway's sole concern now the stricken man. Nothing mattered except Lewis._

_Dropping to his knees, beside Lewis, heedless of the rough surface digging into his flesh through his trousers, Hathaway pulled his jacket from his shoulders and bundled it into a compress, pressing it down over the centre of the spreading stain, trying to staunch the flow of blood. With his free hand, he fished his mobile from his pocket, jabbing the 9 three times with his thumb._

_As he relayed details to the calm female voice – some small part of his mind thankfully retaining its capacity for rational thought – he felt fingers grasp the wrist of the hand keeping pressure on the wound._

_Hathaway met Lewis's gaze. The man's grip tightened; Lewis seemed to be trying to anchor himself physically while he mentally fought the fog that was creeping over him._

_"Sir…" Words, for once, failed him in his desperation, unable to even utter the usual reassurances offered in these situations about how he would be fine; they both knew Hathaway could promise no such thing. All he could do was meet Lewis's gaze and feel the tremble in his hand as his lips parted as if to speak._

_No sound came out. Instead, to Hathaway's horror, the fingers around his wrist went limp and Lewis's eyelids fluttered shut._

* * *

A high-pitched wail and clamour of alarms jolted Hathaway awake. He was momentarily dazed, confused by the sudden racket, until he remembered where he was and what those alarms signified.

He leapt to his feet, a sickening panic descending on him, twisting his stomach, stopping his heart. For seconds that stretched to eternity he could do nothing, frozen in fear.

"Help!"

The cry may never have left his lips; his throat was tight, dry, and all he could hear was the shriek of the alarms. Grasping Lewis's hand, he squeezed, trying to will him through whatever crisis this was; a gesture he knew was futile but it was all he could offer.

_Please. No._

An elbow roughly shoved him aside and suddenly he was surrounded by a gaggle of medical personnel, being pulled out of the way. Lewis's hand fell from his grip as he stumbled backwards on shaky legs.

Steadying hands took hold of his arms and drew him further away. He resisted until the owner of those hands spoke with a gentle, rational voice.

"Give them space to work, James."

Doctor Hobson. She looked worried herself, but her medical training allowed her to remain practical, to retain a pragmatic outlook. In a way, he envied her. She guided him out of the room, but he would retreat no farther than the doorway where he could look in through the glass partition at the activity within. The swarm of busy doctors and nurses obscured his view and he couldn't tell what was going on, too afraid to ask Laura.

"He's stubborn." Hathaway wished he could take more comfort from Laura's words. "If anyone can pull through this, it'll be Robbie."

Placing his forehead to the cool glass, Hathaway closed his eyes and found himself doing something he rarely, if ever, did any more; praying.

* * *

_Laura Hobson found Hathaway slumped in one of the hard plastic chairs in the corridor outside the operating theatres, elbows propped on his knees, staring unfocused at his hands. The sleeves of his shirt were stained with blood – Lewis's blood – drying to a rusty smear, and his hands were shaking._

_Laying a hand on his arm, Laura sat down beside him. "Have you heard anything yet?"_

_"No." Hathaway's voice was detached, drained of all emotion. They had been in the theatre for what felt like hours – and probably was – but no one had yet emerged to give him any news. His leg began to jiggle up and down and he finally looked up at Laura. "Will you…?"_

_"As soon as there's any news, they'll let us know."_

_Hathaway nodded absently; he knew the surgery might take a while, he just couldn't stand the waiting. The not knowing._

_"Why don't you get cleaned up? I'll find you something to change into."_

_Laura took his silence as an agreement and she disappeared briefly, returning with a scrub top borrowed from the hospital stores and two plastic cups of watery vending machine tea._

_"I've phoned Lyn. She's going to come down as soon as she can."_

_Of course, Lewis's daughter. He should have thought of that; she needed to know what had happened._

Am I going to have to explain to her that I'm the reason her father –

_No, that wasn't going to happen. Lewis was going to make it. He had to believe that or he'd be lost._

_Laura directed him to the gents' toilet and he made the mistake of meeting his own gaze in the mirror above the sinks. It was haunted, scared, and his face was paler than usual, an almost ghostly pallor that made him look away again._

_His head bowed, he held onto the edge of the sink with a white-knuckled grip, unable to do anything other than use the solidity of the porcelain as support. Eventually, he peeled his fingers away, and turned on the tap, thrusting his hands under the flow, watching as the water ran red, then pink, then clear again._

_Lewis's blood swirled in the bottom of the sink, then drained away._

_Fighting a queasiness in the pit of his stomach, Hathaway wrenched the tap closed, turned away, tore off his stained shirt and pulled on the scrub top._

Not going to happen.

_When he returned to the chairs, Laura pressed the rapidly cooling tea into his hands. Hathaway stared at the milky surface, the remaining heat barely warming him, not daring to take a sip, not trusting his stomach._

_The tea had gone cold by the time Hathaway stirred again, this time in response to the appearance of a doctor. He pushed to his feet, fought the dizziness that assailed him, and looked a desperate question at the man, his mouth too dry to speak._

_A comforting smile settled on the doctor's face and Hathaway released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, a weight lifted from his chest._

_"He's stable," the doctor informed them, looking between Hathaway and Laura before his gaze returned to Hathaway, apparently judging him to be the one most in need of his reassurance. "The next few hours will be critical, but the early signs are positive that he'll make a full recovery."_

_"Thank you." It was Laura who spoke; Hathaway was too overwhelmed by relief to offer any response beyond a small nod._

_Recovering a little, the world beginning to level again, Hathaway eventually found his voice. "Can I see him?"_

* * *

Hathaway had returned to Lewis's side as soon as the doctor had declared him stable once more. If it hadn't been for the tubes and wires, he could almost have believed Lewis was sleeping now the room had regained some semblance of calm.

Unfortunately, the façade of serenity did nothing to erase Hathaway's memory.

"Please don't scare me like that again." His voice was soft but clear in the still room.

_I don't think I could bare it._

Lewis didn't stir. Hathaway returned to his chair beside the bed, his gaze never leaving the face of the unconscious man, willing Lewis to attend his plea. He sat like that, in silent petition, until exhaustion finally claimed him.

* * *

A touch to his knee drew Hathaway from sleep, a gentler awakening than he had received last time.

Eyes widening in elated surprise, Hathaway leapt to his feet and met the slightly hazy gaze of a conscious Lewis. "You're awake."

"Brilliant…observation, detective."

Hathaway felt his cheeks heat with a faint embarrassment at having made such a redundant exclamation, but he didn't care; Lewis was awake and clearly feeling well enough to take the piss.

Lewis smiled to take the sting from his mocking and Hathaway suddenly didn't know what to say, overcome by such a surge of emotion that he was afraid he would say something equally as foolish as his last statement.

"Not…leaving me to join the…medical profession, are you?"

A bemused frown formed between Hathaway's brows until Lewis enlightened him by plucking at the scrub top he was wearing.

"Oh. No, sir. I needed a fresh shirt and Doctor Hobson kindly found me this." He didn't need to explain the reason he had required the change of shirt, the memories were still painfully fresh for them both.

Lewis looked thoughtful for a moment then lifted his left arm. Upon finding his watch had been removed, his gaze swept up and over the walls in search of the clock. "How long have I been out?"

Following Lewis's gaze, Hathaway checked the time and swiftly did the calculation. "Forty-five hours, twenty-six minutes."

"Not that you've been counting."

Hathaway shook his head. "It felt longer." _An eternity_.

Both men fell silent at that. There was so much Hathaway wanted to say, but he didn't know where to start – there were too many thoughts crowding his mind, fighting for dominance. He had known for a long time that he had a deep-seated affection for Robbie Lewis, but he hadn't been expecting the strength of the emotions that had threatened to overwhelm him when it had seemed possible he might lose him. He had told Lewis in the past that, when the inspector finally left the Force, he would go too, but Hathaway now realized that sentiment ran deeper than just his commitment to policing; he honestly couldn't imagine not having Lewis in his life, by his side.

But there was something more pertinent he needed to say before even attempting to organize the rest of his thoughts.

"I'm sorry."

Lewis frowned at that. "Oh, lad, don't go blaming yourself."

"I should have listened to you. Instead, I put you in harm's way."

"It wasn't your fault. You didn't put the knife in his hands – you didn't even know he had a weapon."

"I shouldn't have been so reckless."

Lewis was shaking his head; Hathaway's inspector knew him too well, knew he was going to take the full weight of the blame on his shoulders. "Your intentions were in the right place. We have to do what we can to save lives."

"Not if it means you have to endanger your own life to save mine." _And not for the first time._ James bowed his head, that weight pressing down.

"James. Don't."

Hathaway felt fingers brush against the back of his hand and looked up in surprise. Lewis's eyes were fixed on him with a meaningful intensity and all those other feelings rushed back into Hathaway's mind. He turned his hand into the touch, wanting – _needing_ – the contact, to feel the warmth and vitality beneath the skin, the irrefutable proof that Lewis was alive.

Lewis seemed to sense what he was seeking; he squeezed Hathaway's fingers and Hathaway took comfort from the strength of his grip. He gave a squeeze back in response, a silent promise that he would try to do as Lewis asked.

"Thank you." Lewis was the one to break the silence.

"For what?" _I've done nothing to warrant your gratitude._

"For staying with me."

_Where else would I be?_

Hathaway knew his unvoiced response was written in his eyes; his impassive mask had been torn away back on that rooftop and Lewis could surely see straight into his soul. The inspector was clearly shrewd enough to guess correctly that Hathaway hadn't yet been home, or left the hospital, even had it not been for the evidence of the borrowed scrubs.

The remained like that, the silence that settled between them once more filled with words that didn't need to be spoken, for several moments more until Lewis let his hand drop back to the mattress and sank back against his pillow with a weary sigh. "You should get yourself home, find a proper change of clothes."

"Okay. I'll bring you back some necessities."

If he had been about to argue that Hathaway shouldn't hurry back, Lewis stopped himself. Perhaps he knew Hathaway had no intention of adhering to that particular suggestion. "Thanks, lad."

Hathaway turned to head for the door, but paused when Lewis spoke again.

"Don't forget me Yorkie."

For the first time since before they had begun their pursuit of Paul Clarke, a smile ghosted across Hathaway's face.

"I wouldn't dream of it, sir."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: A huge thank you to the guest reviewer (:**

**I felt there should be a conclusion, which resulted in more angsty fluff.**

* * *

As the days had worn on, Lewis had grown progressively grouchier at his confinement, fed up with the enforced bed rest even if he silently admitted to himself that he barely felt ready to get up to much else. It had finally reached the point where even the nurses he had originally charmed with his northern amiability had begun to tiptoe around him a little more cautiously lest they trigger his increasingly prickly temper.

When Hathaway arrived to collect him on his day of discharge, Lewis could have kissed the man. Never had he been happier to see his sergeant; his arrival signaled the freedom that was soon to be his.

A porter hovering behind Hathaway with a wheelchair, ostensibly with the intention to convey Lewis out of the hospital, put a slight dampener on his elation.

"Leave off, man. I don't need that."

"Sorry, sir, it's hospital policy. Wouldn't want you to trip on your way out and have to be readmitted with a broken ankle." Judging by the porter's smile, the man was accustomed to such irritable behaviour in the patients he encountered.

"You're right about that." Lewis conceded defeat and settled himself into the chair. Hathaway collected his holdall from the bed, hiding a small smile, and followed along behind as Lewis was pushed along corridors to the exit. The lad was quiet, but it wasn't unusual for Hathaway to suffer such instances of silent introspection. Perhaps he was merely waiting until there was a little distance between Lewis and the hospital before saying anything that might be taken the wrong way by his tetchy boss.

In the hospital, after he had awoken, Lewis had witnessed a previously well-concealed intensity of emotion in James; his mask had been lowered, giving Lewis a rare glimpse of what lay beneath that inscrutable exterior. But, in the intervening time, as Lewis had gradually recovered and regained his strength, Hathaway had rebuilt that stony façade of his in corresponding degrees.

Once Lewis had made the careful transferal from wheelchair to car, Hathaway stowed his holdall in the back and slid in behind the wheel.

"Ready, sir?"

"More than ready. Take me home, James."

For his part, Lewis remained mostly silent for the duration of the journey, concentrating on not wincing every time the car found a pothole. Hathaway was driving with a commendable display of the due care and attention befitting a police officer, but still Lewis could feel every bump in the road as a twinge in his stomach. When Hathaway finally drew the car to a halt, Lewis gave an audible sigh of relief.

While Lewis was still fiddling with his seatbelt, Hathaway had climbed out of the car and pulled open the passenger door. Lewis raised an eyebrow at the show of chivalry and would have made a comment about not being the bloody Queen had not the simple action of levering himself from the low seat required all his energy.

Before he could make a move to collect his bag from the back seat, Hathaway had it in hand. For once, Lewis wasn't going to argue that he could do it himself; there was a time for pride, and his body was telling him that now was not that time.

After unlocking the door to let the two of them in, Lewis made a beeline for the sofa, sinking into its cushions with grateful relief.

"Would you like some tea, sir?" Hathaway reappeared from the bedroom where he had just deposited Lewis's holdall and headed toward the kitchen.

"Aye, lad, that'd be great. It has to be an improvement on that dishwater they serve at the hospital."

"Not a vending machine in sight."

"Perfect."

Lewis closed his eyes, listening to the comfortingly domestic sounds drifting from the kitchen – kettle boiling, spoon rattling against cups, sugar jar opening. He felt better than he had in days; the restorative power of being in one's own home was undeniable.

"Sir?"

Lewis stirred. Hathaway stood before him, steaming mug extended.

"Mm, thanks, James." Lewis took the proffered mug with a happy smile and inhaled the welcome warmth. Hathaway sat down in his usual spot beside Lewis, a mug of his own clutched in one hand, the television remote in the other.

"Any preference?" he asked, clicking the telly on and flicking through the channels.

Lewis shook his head. "You pick." He wasn't up to following anything closely; content to just sit there, away from the damned machines and fussing nurses. Hathaway settled on a repeat of _QI_ and relaxed back, one ankle propped up on the opposite knee.

The combination of the hot tea, Stephen Fry's knowledgeable commentary, and the pressure of Hathaway's shoulder against his slowly eradicated the remaining traces of his earlier irritability. He had almost fallen into a doze when Hathaway moved, saying something about making a start on dinner.

"Don't be daft, man," Lewis protested. "I'm perfectly capable of picking up a phone and calling one of those takeaway places that deliver."

"You can't live on takeaways, sir. Especially not while you're still recovering," Hathaway admonished.

_I should've just let Lyn stay and babysit me._

Lewis had insisted that his daughter return to her own family once he was safely out of the woods. She had been reluctant, and he was certain that James had had something to do with her eventual agreement. Now he just had to put up with his sergeant's fussing, although, to be honest, it wasn't much of a hardship.

Too tired to argue, Lewis let the lad get on with it, and the meal that was served up a little while later looked and smelled delicious. Upon closer inspection, Lewis spotted several ingredients he was sure hadn't been in his cupboards before his stay in hospital. He wanted to ask Hathaway about these unexpected acquisitions, but knew he wouldn't feel up to grocery shopping for a while and appreciated James's thoughtfulness. Instead, he just enjoyed the meal, and Hathaway's company.

After they were finished, Hathaway made to start clearing the dirty plates. Lewis waved an unconcerned hand, unable to ignore his weariness any longer.

"Leave those, man, I'll see to them tomorrow." With a small groan, he hauled himself to his feet. "I think I'm going to turn in. You can see yourself out?"

"I'll be fine, sir."

"Thanks for today, James."

Hathaway gave him a smile and nod of acknowledgement before returning to the job he had started on the plates.

* * *

It was still dark when Lewis was jolted awake by a sharp pain lancing from his wound into his gut. Gritting his teeth, he waited until it had settled to a dull ache then groped on the bedside table for the painkillers he had been prescribed. The pills were there, but his water glass was empty.

Sighing, he carefully pushed himself up, sick of the damn pain. It made him feel old, worn out, which was daft because anyone who had had a knife stuck in him would be in much the same state. Slowly pulling on his dressing gown and collecting both the empty glass and box of pills, he shuffled from his bedroom and into the bathroom.

He immediately regretted his decision to switch on the light, blinking in the harsh glare at his pallid reflection in the mirror. _Christ, I look like Hell_. Shaking his head, he broke eye contact with himself, padded across to the sink and filled the glass with cold water from the tap. As he lifted it away, the edge of the glass caught on the tap and slipped from his grip, cracking into several pieces as it clattered to the bottom of the sink.

"Shit…"

Water had splashed over the front of Lewis's dressing gown and pyjama top, but he had avoided cutting himself on the broken glass. _Small mercies._

"Sir?"

Lewis spun around in surprise; Hathaway stood in the bathroom doorway, short hair disheveled, a look of concern on his face.

"What on Earth are you doing here, man?"

Hathaway evaded the question by stepping into the bathroom to inspect the damage. His detective's brain collated the evidence and deduced what Lewis had been doing. Placing a hand on Lewis's elbow, Hathaway guided him to sit on the lid of the toilet seat and assured himself his boss hadn't sustained any further injuries.

Issuing the instruction to "Wait here a minute," Hathaway left the bathroom but reappeared moments later with a new glass, filled from the kitchen tap. He popped a couple of the painkillers from their blister pack then offered Lewis both the pills and the water.

While Lewis waited for the painkillers to take effect, the damp cotton of his pyjamas chilling his skin, Hathaway returned to the sink and cleared up the shards of broken glass. As he was mopping up the spilled water, Lewis repeated his question.

"What _are_ you still doing here? It's the middle of the night!"

Hathaway stopped what he was doing and turned to look at Lewis with one of his trademark unreadable expressions; he clearly thought the question was unnecessary.

"I thought I should stay. In case you needed anything."

"You don't have to do that, James. I don't expect –"

"I know. I _want_ to." Before Lewis could voice any further argument, Hathaway spoke again. "You should get back to bed." He extended a hand to Lewis.

Sighing, Lewis accepted the assistance, letting James pull him back to his feet, pleased to find the drugs had numbed the pain back to a tolerable ache. With a hand on Lewis's back, Hathaway steered him back to the bedroom.

"I don't need a nursemaid." Lewis's grumble was just a token protest now; he had grown so accustomed to living alone that the thought of having James nearby was oddly comforting.

When he was deposited safely back on the bed, out of harm's way, Hathaway gestured to his damp pyjama top. "You need a dry shirt."

"It's just a bit of water." _Which will be bloody clammy in bed._ Hathaway was watching him expectantly. Lewis gave him a wry smile and inclined his head toward the chest of drawers. "Bottom drawer."

Hathaway fetched a clean shirt and handed it to Lewis.

"I think I can manage this on me own."

"Of course." Hathaway retreated to the door but paused when Lewis spoke again.

"Thank you."

Hathaway smiled at him in the darkness. "Goodnight, sir."

* * *

The next morning, Lewis found Hathaway back in the kitchen, scrambling eggs in a pan.

"I don't expect you to cook _all_ my meals."

"Good timing – breakfast's almost ready." Hathaway avoided the point once again in favour of buttering toast. Lewis knew it would be futile to push the matter and sat down heavily in a chair, resigned.

The simple meal looked far more appetizing than anything Lewis would have rustled up himself and he dug in with gusto when James delivered his plate. After a few mouthfuls, he glanced at the clock, then at Hathaway, busy making coffee.

"Shouldn't you be making a move? You'll be late."

"I arranged to take a few days leave."

Lewis's fork froze halfway to his mouth. "And Innocent agreed? How'd you wangle that?"

"Must have been my natural charm." Delivered with such deadpan certainty that Lewis grinned.

"Aye, that must be it. Wish some of it would rub off on me."

"You've plenty of your own, sir."

Lewis wasn't sure now if Hathaway was joking or not. He snorted his disagreement and returned to his breakfast.

"This is delicious, but you're not chained to my stove. You should take advantage of your free time. Do…something."

"There's nothing else I need to do."

And there was the crux of the matter. Hathaway clearly felt it was his duty to look after his wounded governor.

"You've no obligation –"

"I know. I want to help. So no more arguments."

Lewis held up his hand in surrender. If he was perfectly honest, having James around prevented him just sitting around feeling sorry for himself. Brooding. And if there was anyone he would have chosen to keep him company, it would have been his sergeant. Anybody else might have thought it a strange choice, but it seemed natural to Lewis – he and Hathaway had long since passed the stage of being purely work colleagues; they were friends, too.

* * *

As the remainder of the week played itself out, Lewis began to feel guilty about taking advantage of that friendship. As much as he enjoyed having James around the place, he couldn't help but feel responsible for the lad putting his own life on hold.

_Am I only reinforcing the blame he feels by letting him continue with his nurse act?_

Lewis knew Hathaway had almost as pitiful a social life as he himself did. The two of them were more likely to spend an evening together down the pub or sharing a takeaway as they were to spend it fulfilling a prior engagement with friends or family. Still, surely the lad had _something_ he would rather be doing? Rehearsing with his band perhaps? Even Lewis would be sick of his own company by now.

But he had agreed not to argue, and when they sat down in the evenings to watch TV together, James seemed just as happy as Lewis.

* * *

Saturday morning, Laura arrived for an unexpected visit. Hathaway took the opportunity to slip out to the supermarket. With a pang of guilt, Lewis realized that the lad had barely left the flat the last few days.

Laura caught his expression; a look of concern crossed her own features. "How are you feeling, Robbie?"

"Oh, I'm okay. Thanks for visiting." He smiled, worried it may look a little forced; he was genuinely pleased to see Laura and she wasn't here to listen to his grumbling. "Would you like some tea? Just don't offer to make it for me."

Laura responded with an understanding grin. "That would be lovely." They went into the kitchen and Lewis put the kettle on. Laura gestured with a thumb back in the direction of the front door. "It looks like James has been taking good care of you."

"He has. Only I think I might be taking advantage of the lad. He blames himself for what happened and I think all this is his way of…seeking atonement."

"That _does_ sound like James." Laura frowned in thought. "I think there's more to it than that, though. You know he refused to leave the hospital until you woke up. He needed to know you were going to be okay."

Lewis felt oddly touched by that simple, selfless gesture, but surely the lad had just wanted to ensure he hadn't inadvertently caused his boss any major injury. "That's the same thing, isn't it?"

"He wouldn't be here if he didn't want to be."

Lewis only shook his head, worried it wasn't so much a question of _want_ but _need. _A part of Lewis wanted the lad to stay, but that was unfair to James; Hathaway honestly had no debt to repay, and was only here out of some sense of duty.

* * *

By that evening, Lewis had spent several hours musing over how he could convince James he needn't babysit him any longer. His own self-reproach had slowly restored the grumpiness he had so successfully banished a few days ago. He insisted on helping Hathaway prepare dinner and tried to think of a way to tactfully suggest James should go out for the evening.

When Hathaway moved to collect their plates, Lewis, in his frustration, snapped.

"I can manage the bloody washing up!" It came out far more sharply than he'd intended and Hathaway froze.

"Sorry, sir." The plates were placed back down carefully, deliberately, and when Hathaway turned back to him, his emotionless mask was firmly in place.

"You've been stuck here for days, waiting on me." Lewis aimed for a softer, more conciliatory tone; he wasn't angry with James, just concerned. "You must have things you need to do. This obligation you feel, it's not necessary – I told you it wasn't your fault. You've nothing to make amends for."

"And I told you, that's not the reason -"

"Aye, so you keep saying, but I _know_ you, James."

Something broke through the mask, a brief flicker of…something. Disappointment?

"Obviously not as well as you think."

Hathaway's voice was seven, neutral, but Lewis suddenly realized he had been wrong. Yes, Hathaway still felt guilty for what had happened, but that wasn't what had kept him here, by Lewis's side, all this time. James _wanted_ to help – they were not only colleagues, but friends – and now, looking into those hurt eyes in an otherwise blank face, Lewis realized that there was something deeper running beneath the surface of that friendship.

Lewis had thought _he_ was the one in danger of developing too close an attachment to his sergeant; Hathaway had already crossed that line.

"I'll get out of your hair."

The dull, flat tone of James's voice hit Lewis like a blow. Hathaway was moving towards the door, and Lewis couldn't let him leave, not like this, not believing that…

"James, wait." Lewis rose, intending to stop the lad, apologize, explain, but he moved too quickly and pain lanced through his stomach like a red-hot poker. Gasping, he stumbled forward a step, trying to regain his balance. His shin struck the corner of the coffee table and his leg collapsed beneath him, adding its own brand of agony into the mix. Lewis fell to his knees, one hand clutched to his stomach, covering the wound, sucking in short, glass-edged breaths as a blackness crept in around the edges of his vision.

"…Robbie?"

A hand on his shoulder. Familiar yet worried voice pushing past the pain and giving him something to tether himself to. Gentle hands helped him up, guided him back onto the sofa.

As he settled back against the cushions, the pain slowly began to subside and breathing became easier. His gaze finally focused on the concerned face of his sergeant, knelt on the floor in front of him.

Lewis opened his mouth, either to confirm that he was okay or to attempt his apology, but his voice failed him. Hathaway didn't seem to notice; his attention was fixed on Lewis's stomach.

"You're bleeding."

Lewis looked down and, sure enough, a small patch of fresh blood was steadily spreading on his shirt. "Shit."

Deft fingers were already unfastening the buttons of his shirt, pushing the edges apart and peeling back the tape securing the gauze that covered the wound. There was a pause as Hathaway revealed the ragged cut and its ugly row of stitches; Lewis guessed he was fighting another rush of guilt.

Seconds later, James had pulled himself back, meeting Lewis's gaze with unmistakable relief. "It looks like you've pulled a stitch out. I'll redress it and see if the bleeding stops by itself. Save you another hospital visit."

Hathaway rose to fetch more gauze and tape from the bathroom then set about carefully redressing the wound in an almost professional manner. His fingers were warm against Lewis's skin but their touch was considerately gentle.

"Done." James pressed the final strip of tape into place and made to rise, but Lewis caught his wrist to prevent another escape attempt. He had to apologize.

"Please. Don't." James's voice was quiet and he refused to look at Lewis. Lewis merely held on until he relented and perched himself on the edge of the coffee table.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. I thought…I thought I was being selfish."

Now James _did_ look up, confusion etched on his brow. "Selfish?"

"Yeah. I didn't think there could be any reason for you to want to stay here and look after me other than because you felt guilty." Lewis twisted his lips into a wry smile. "And there I was making fun of _your_ powers of observation."

Hathaway gave a small nod. "I did try to tell you."

"Aye. You did." _And I refused to believe it._ Sometimes James's enigmatic impassivity was a pain in the arse.

"When I saw you on that roof, I was…scared. I suddenly realized I couldn't bear to lose you." Hathaway paused, his gaze meeting Lewis's then sliding away again. "I know you don't feel the same way, but I still had to make sure you were okay."

Lewis closed his eyes briefly, allowing his mind to shed all the assumptions it had made; what remained was that deep affection for James that he had barely even realized he had been suppressing.

_I was so busy trying to second-guess your feelings that I completely ignored my own._

Leaning forward, fighting back the dagger of pain that even such a small movement spawned, Lewis placed a hand on Hathaway's knee. James's gaze lifted again, uncertainty and tentative hope in his eyes.

"I was trying to push you away because I thought it would be best for you. I didn't want you stuck here with me."

"I've never considered myself 'stuck'. Just…lucky."

"I'd say _I'm _the lucky one."

The uncertainty faded, replaced by a smile of unbridled happiness – something Lewis had honestly missed recently. James covered Lewis's hand with his own and Lewis turned his hand over to give James's fingers a squeeze – the same gesture of reassurance he had offered at the hospital.

"Come 'ere, bonny lad." Lewis gave James's hand a tug and James was beside him on the sofa, arms carefully slipping around his waist. "Just be gentle with me, eh?"

"Always."

James's lips met Lewis's and both men finally relaxed in the knowledge that this was what they both wanted _and_ needed.


End file.
